Odin's Legacy
by S.Warfield
Summary: In the small town of Nibelheim Cloud Strife chafes at his unfortunate lot in life and dreams of one day traveling to Midgar where a better life is sure to await him. Getting there, however, may be one bridge too far.
1. That Town Called Nibelheim

**- Odin's Legacy-**

**Disclaimer****: **

Final Fantasy VII characters, names, and indicia are copyright Square Enix & co. This is a work of fan fiction, no money is being made from the production or publishing of this work.

**_This story may contain mature content. If you are offended by crude language, violence, heterosexuality, or homosexuality, stop reading now. This story is not for you._**

**Summary:**

In the small town of Nibelheim Cloud Strife chafes at his unfortunate lot in life and dreams of one day traveling to Midgar where a better life is sure to await him. But when a series of unfortunate and terrible events strike dull old Nibelheim, leaving may be the _least _of his worries.

**

* * *

That Town Called Nibelheim**

It was just another day in Nibelheim.

"Mrs. Speckler?"

"Yes, dear?"

"S'it true that most Nibelheimers are no-gooders?"

"No-gooders? Why do you say that dear?"

"That's what my momma says, that everybody in Nibelheim turned into a no-gooder 'cause they don't work no more."

Cloud dragged his attention away from staring at his namesake through the half-open window and refocused on the front of the small classroom where Mrs. Speckler had been dragged off-topic again by Tess. Tattle-tail Tess, they called her. Pig-tailed little tattle-tail Tess.

The teacher—discomfited by the question—smiled hesitantly and smoothed her dress. Cloud was interested in how she would answer it, and he wasn't the only older student who had risen out of their learning stupor. Johnny, to his right, a son to one of those so-called unemployed 'no-gooders', looked like he had swallowed a pickle whole.

"Well, I don't know much about no-gooders, but your momma is right to some extent. Ever since Shinra built that big power plant up on Mt. Nibel, we've been getting free power and a monthly stipend. Most folks can survive on the stipend, it's true, but it only covers livin' costs—not much else."

"I knew it," Tess declared. "Momma's always right."

"_Momma's always right,_" Brant mocked, a stocky boy at the other end of the classroom. His father was one of the miners who had lost their jobs when Shinra came. "Shut yer hole Tess, you and your momma don't know nothin'."

Tess turned around and glared, as only a nine year old know-it-all could glare. "Brant Forriger, don't think I ain't seen your daddy drinkin' midday for no good reason when he should be workin'."

"Yeah? And where's your daddy, huh?" Brant drawled, cracking his meaty knuckles. Everyone knew Tess was illegitimate—wasn't like she was the only bastard in Nibelheim, though. There were two ways for a single woman to get a Shinra stipend: either own property in Nibelheim, or get with child.

"That's quite enough, thank you," Mrs. Speckler finally chimed in sternly, ending the brief standoff. "There's a very good reason why there are a lot of good folk no longer employed. Does anyone know? Tifa?" She smiled down at her favourite student fondly. "How about you?"

Cloud glared at the back of Tifa's head as she answered sheepishly. "When Shinra built the power plant, they had to close the mines?"

"That's right, and does anyone know _why_ the mines closed down and put so many people out of work?" Mrs. Speckler's eyes zeroed in on him, obviously catching him glaring balefully at the mayor's daughter. "_Mr._ _Strife_? How about you?"

Cloud flicked his eyes back to his desk, answering dutifully. "I heard that the mako that used to make materia in the mountains all dried up once the plant started. The monsters started multiplying too, and they had to close the mines because people were getting killed."

Mrs. Speckler clasped her hands patronizingly after a long, drawn-out look of warning. "That's right! In fact, the Nibelheim materia-mines used to be the second largest in the world after the cosmo-canyon mines shut down. Up in the mountains, Mako would bubble up from the ground into small pools and streams of water where it would then condense and form maturing materia. The miners used to dig into the mountain, along old mako faultlines and unearth materia that's been sitting in there for centuries." Mrs. Speckler smiled kindly at Brant and his posse at the back of the classroom. "The Shinra power plant may have given us electricity, but without mako bubbling up and making new materia, and the mountains being too dangerous with all those monsters skulking around, a lot of otherwise good folk were put out of honest work." She returned Tess' petulant glare with a patronizing waggle of her long finger. "That's why they pay each family in Nibelheim a stipend, for the lost work. Nobody's a 'no-gooder' by choice, Tess. They're just good folk who've had their livelihood taken from them."

"That's not what momma says," Tess replied stubbornly, glaring over her shoulder at the fuming boy in the back corner. "And Brant's going to be just like his daddy one day: just another no-gooder drunk."

Cloud winced. Did that girl have a death-wish? Brant tortured small animals for shits and giggles. Tess barely came up to his chest.

Brant slammed his hands on his desk and stood up so quickly he overturned his chair, face flushed and twisted with anger. "Yeah! Then you'll take after your momma then, too? As if this town needs another _whore-_" But his rant was forestalled when Mrs. Speckler finally lost her temper.

"That is _enough!_" she said, her voice a deathly quiet whisper that immediately silenced the room. "Sit down Mr. Forriger, we will _not_ be slinging any mud today. And you," she said, turning to the white-faced little girl who now had tears in her eyes, "will keep your thoughts to yourself. This is a school, we are here to _learn_, not gossip and bicker like…like _animals!_" she finished in a deathly quiet whisper.

Cloud rolled his eyes and began staring out the window at the dark clouds ringing distant Mt. Nibel. For a moment Mrs. Speckler had been about to say 'like children' and probably realized how ridiculous that would have sounded. They were children; ignorant stupid children. And the stuff Mrs. Speckler taught in class certainly wasn't making anyone any smarter—or wiser. Especially wiser. Shinra Power Electric Company only cared if they could read and write; add, subtract, multiply, and divide. If a child could do all that by the time he or she was fourteen and list off the five previous presidents of Shinra and their most famous generals—well, that was all a kid really needed in a world where everything revolved around Shinra.

Resting his head on his hand, Cloud sunk back into a hazy stupor as Mrs. Speckler returned to droning on about the history of Shinra. Considering it was Shinra who had built the schoolhouse and Shinra who paid the teacher and Shinra who printed the textbooks they were using, her lecture contained more propaganda than real history, not like the stories his mother knew—the stories she used to tell him every night before bed about the old Gods and the Ancients who served them and his ancestors, who in turn served the Ancients: Odin's people.

Signy's stories were allegorical and couldn't possibly be true, but they all had lessons in them, at least—practical ones; wise ones. Still, if he wanted to work for Shinra one day it would help if he graduated from primary at least, even if he had no plans to apply for the Shinra University in Midgar.

"Now let's all turn to page 60 and find out just why Shinra has a 'board of directors' and how the president gets elected…"

Cloud wrinkled his nose.

Just another day in dumb, boring Nibelheim.

* * *

"Rumour is, Tess is actually Brant's half-sister," Johnny said to Cloud, after school, as they trailed after Brant and his four buddies along the thick forest path. "I heard his daddy visited her a lot in the days before she got pregnant. If you've ever seen Brant's Daddy, you would see the resemblance. She got his hair."

Cloud had to actually consider that one for a while before rejecting it. "Just because they both have brown hair doesn't mean they're related."

"Maybe, but it _would _explain why they hate each other. I mean, her mom _is_ a whore, and they're _always_ at each other's throats. It's not _impossible_."

"I guess…" Words his mother once told him came to mind; words that had recently developed a whole new meaning for him personally: "People don't always need a reason to hate somebody." Although a rumour like that might be enough to stir resentment between them.

Johnny winced before he caught himself. He had obviously cottoned-on to the true direction Cloud's thoughts had taken. "Y'know…they wouldn't hate you so much if you'd just stopped her instead of following her up the damn mountain…"

"Gaia's hairy tits," Cloud hissed; he was sick of hearing that! "I'd like to see you have stopped her! She was half-insane with grief. Some idiot told her a story about the land of the dead over the mountain, and she _believed _it. No-one believes those old stories. They're metaphorical." The only thing over the mountains was Rocket Town. And that sure wasn't no Mystical Land of the Dead. Unless 'dead' referred to 'machines', in which case it might be.

"Hey! I believe them!"

"You only do because Tifa does…did…whatever," Cloud shoved his hands into his pockets and marched on, determined not to lose sight of Brant.

"I would have stopped her…somehow…" Johnny maintained stubbornly, his cheeks painted an embarrassed rosy colour. Cloud still hadn't decided if Johnny's obvious crush on Tifa was funny or annoying. Johnny got real stupid whenever Tifa was in the mix, not that he was any different from other boys their age who were all similarly brainwashed by Tifa's mere presence.

Cloud, on the other hand, was still sore whenever Tifa's name came up. She had managed to turn him into a pariah overnight by nearly killing herself crossing the mountains in the dead of night. Cloud had saved her life, caught her hand and nearly fallen into the gorge himself when the rickety bridge crossing the gorge fell out from under her feet. She'd been knocked unconscious when she'd slammed into the cliff face, and Cloud had dutifully lugged her back into town. When she'd come to the villagers had started blaming Cloud for not stopping her in the first place—forget that he'd saved her life; forget that it was the Mayor that had lost track of his daughter in the first place: it was the little bastard Cloud's fault, they'd said, who didn't have any common sense because he didn't have a father. They were foreigners, didn't you know? Just look at their funny hair. And that name? _Strife_. What must their folk have done to earn a name like _Strife?_ Poor, little Tifa—the little bastard had obviously tricked her with those old stories!

"_Stay away from my daughter you little bastard,_" the mayor had declared to the room full of would be concerned rescuers. "_If I ever see you around her again, I'll wring your little neck._"

Never let it be said that Mr. Lockhart didn't think the world of his little girl.

Tifa hadn't said a word in his defense, and no-one was about to blame a little girl who was grief-stricken over her mother's death for running off and doing something stupid. Cloud's mother was always telling him grudges didn't do anyone any favours. But it was hard not to feel embittered over the whole catastrophe, especially when Tifa chose to keep her mouth shut when it _really_ mattered.

They hadn't spoken since.

"Why're we following Brant and his pack of goons, anyway?" Johnny wondered; he picked his way along the trail with sullen steps, obviously wanting to be anywhere but here.

Cloud shrugged. Wasn't it obvious? "I heard he has a wicked punch. Apparently he knocked out Donald." Donald was _sixteen_ and worked outside town as a farm hand. If the rumor was true it was impressive. Cloud wanted to see him in action.

"You want to _fight_ him?" Johnny's steps came to an abrupt halt. "Oh no. Fuck no! Not this again. If I get into another fight my Dad'll stripe my hide _raw_. Uh-uh. Count me _out._"

"I never said I was going to fight him _now_," Cloud said irritably. "We just happen to be walking coincidentally in the same direction. And…other strange…coincidences may occur if we continue in the same direction…" Like seeing him fight someone _else._ Johnny was such an idiot sometimes. He wouldn't complain half so much if it were Tifa they were following.

"Yeah right. I'm getting while the going is good. I'll see you tomorrow."

Cloud wasn't _too_ bothered when his sometimes friend turned around and beat a hasty retreat back up the path Brant was following down into the ravine. A single punch to the stomach from Marlboro a few days back had had the reedy boy on his knees sniveling—and then he hadn't stopped whining about the small bruise. Johnny's strength lay more in talking and running; his fists were knobbly and his bladder was weak, but his legs were long and his stride loping; still, hanging out with Johnny beat being lonely, even if Cloud did have to put up with a lot of nonsensical Tifa-worship.

He laced his fingers into his short silky locks behind his head and continued on down the hill. Brant and his four younger friends all lived on the outskirts; three of them were miner progeny—big, bulky, dumb-as-nails types—and every day after school was out, mid-afternoon, they always stopped by the stream down in the gorge to skip rocks or torment small animals they'd left snares for the previous day. Cloud had watched them before, but he'd always kept his distance. There was just something…creepy about them, something that drew and repulsed his curiosity at the same time.

Today they'd caught a hare—a big brown one, speckled like sand. Cloud stopped some ways back among the trees and watched, alternately fascinated and horrified. He could hear their excited cries as they mobbed the shivering creature, pulling, prodding, and pinching gleefully.

"Look at it! Dumb animal. Broke its leg trying to get loose!" Brant twisted its leg viciously. The hare _shrieked._ Cloud hadn't even realized those tiny critters _could_ shriek. Apparently, neither had Brant.

"Listen to it scream! Din't know rabbits could _scream_." The leg was twisted again.

It shrieked. They laughed.

"Can it swim?" Red-haired Cameron wondered, pudgy face screwed up stupidly.

"'Course it can _swim_," Brant said, condescendingly. But even then there was some dissension among the ranks as to whether rabbits could swim. Brant solved the problem neatly: "You two, go across to the other side of the stream, don't let it up."

With his friends lining the bank on both sides of the knee-deep stream, he tossed the terrified creature end over end into the middle of the moving water. The hare took a moment to surface, lagging suspiciously as it swam a tight circle, before breaking for the bank downstream.

"It CAN swim!"

"I told you so," Brant shouted smugly.

The boys followed it, laughing, jeering it on, splashing it, shoving its head under when it got too close. The smallest of the five, James something-or-rather, nabbed it by its scruff when it got into the shallows where he was standing, barefoot, up to his knees. He tossed it back upstream giggling like a machine gun, right back into the centre and started the whole process again. It floundered, came back up, a keening wail of distress echoing off the trees.

They were going to kill it.

It was a startling revelation. Not the end, of course, but the means. This was a different sort of killing to what Cloud was accustomed. He was no stranger to hunting. He'd been into the mountains on hunts before, he'd seen animals killed for meat or furs; he'd seen beasts slaughtered because they were up to no good. But hunting for game was different than this game. This game was drawn out, meant to cause malicious suffering. Their sole purpose here was to fill the hare's last moments with terror and helplessness and dreadful inevitability. And when it cried for mercy? They laughed. That was the worst part. They laughed.

The hare never gave up. Cloud had lost track how many times Brant and his bunch had tossed the bedraggled and trembling creature back into the water. Each time he did, the hare would paddle back to shore, flagging a little more, desperately hoping to avoid cruel stubby fingers, escape that terribly playful laughter of his tormentors.

The forest, in contrast to the scene playing out by the stream, was quiet, eerily still without the wind; the oaks and the maples and the tall pines were stoic witnesses whose silence felt heavy and disapproving. Cloud found himself holding his breath with the trees, unwilling or unable to move from his position, unwilling and unable to look away, rooted half-way up the hill.

The hare struggled into the shallows, and Brant left it there a moment. It huffed and puffed, wide-eyes rolled, and its sand-speckled coat, now wet and dark and scraggly, heaved and trembled. When Brant reached for it, the hare barely so much as twitched. He dangled it by its scruff, laughing as its big hind legs flailed sluggishly.

"Dumb animal. If you didn't want to die you shouldn't have gotten caught in the first place," Brant spat.

"It's boring, B. Le's do summin else," Cameron complained.

Brant shrugged. He took the hare's thin neck in both hands and stared it in the eye. He smiled. "I always wanted a rabbit named, _Tess_," he said, full of malice and dark promise.

They laughed at that too. Cloud felt a bit sick to his stomach.

It ended in a flash. Brant jerked his hands and twisted. The neck cracked, loud like a gunshot through the trees, and the hare went still. Sneering as the laughter began winding down, Brant tossed it one last time into the stream. It bobbed once, twice, before the gentle current caught it and swept it downstream, vanishing beneath the surface a second later.

They seemed immune to the aura of the forest as they moved onward, forgetting their game in favour of talking loudly about what they were having for dinner, the size of Tifa's tits, the ugly wart on Cameron's thumb, the money Brant was saving up for a whore.

Cloud still hadn't moved a muscle or twitched an eyebrow. He wasn't sure if it was because he didn't want to draw their attention, didn't want to be the next rabbit in their twisted little game, or because of the terribly dark feeling he could feel thrumming through the tree his palm rested against—feelings of bitterness and hate and anger. The feelings intensified. The sun dimmed and dimmed and dimmed until it was grey like twilight and the shadows became long vicious things that smothered the ground, wrapped and twisted around his legs so he couldn't move, couldn't escape. Oh, the trees weren't silent anymore. They were all too loud. He could hear them whispering. Voices. Many voices. But he couldn't understand the words. Maybe there were no words? They didn't need words. Humans needed words. They hated humans. Despaired for humanity, which was filled with arrogant and selfish creatures. Always thinking of themselves. They were like parasites. They took and took and took until there was nothing left to take. And then they moved on and infected some other place. Then they took and took and TOOK some more, and every time a little piece of the **S#FSG%DFGS **withered and died. The voices cried and cried and CRIED but humans couldn't hear them! So the voices cried and cried and despaired and despaired and **DESPAIRED**—

He jerked his hand away from the tree, stumbling over an exposed root and crashing into the ground where he inhaled air furiously into his aching lungs. He dug his fingers into his arms—_pain—_he relished the pain. It grounded him to…himself? Yes, he was him. He was him, Cloud. He was _Cloud_. He was not a tree. People couldn't be trees. He was Cloud. Human. Male. I live with Signy. I like climbing trees. I like trees—_not being one_. I. AM. Cloud.

The world spun a moment longer before snapping back into place, everything right side up.

A bird warbled. The stream burbled and gulped. Grass rustled with the passing of a small animal. Leaves whispered and rubbed in the cool air off the mountain. The sky was bright, clear, with clouds in the distance. The loamy earth and fragrant sap of the forest filled his nose, his lungs. Inhale—exhale. Cloud took deep cleansing breaths, willing his heart to slow and his stomach to climb down from his esophagus. He sat upright and swiped angrily at his eyes with the sleeve of his t-shirt.

"Fuck," Cloud said, his voice cracking. "What the fuck. It was just a hare. It was _just _ a hare," he repeated, voice stronger now, "and trees don't talk. Trees _don't talk._"

The _fuck_ they didn't! because Cloud didn't believe in the old stories. The ones that talked of Gaia and the lifestream and the Ancients, who could communicate through mako with the planet itself. They were just stories. That's all they were…_stories_.

_Urk._

Just the same…just the same, Cloud toed off his shoes, tugged off his socks, and waded into the mucky shallows downstream to retrieve the hare and buried it proper in the bowl of a tree, just in case.

He was only a stupid dumb superstitious Nibelheimer, after all. Even if he didn't believe all the old stories.

* * *

There was a red scarf tied around the doorknob. Cloud stared at it balefully for a while. He'd taken too long getting home. The sun was purple just past the distant western mountains, the shadows long. The town-square was nearly empty, just a few last minute vendors packing up their stalls with haphazard eagerness; there seemed to be quite a raucous gathering at the Inn next door—light and loud voices spilled through the open door across the street. Cloud could see the Mayor, Mr. Lockheart, standing on the bar waving his arms frantically to gain some order and getting ignored for the most part as another song started up to a ragged and drunken cheer: Nibelheimers at their finest. Drunk and stupid and happy.

Cloud refocused on the knob and the scarf. His mother was having _company_ tonight. The scarf meant Cloud had to make himself scarce for the evening.

His stomach gurgled plaintively.

"Great. Just…great," Cloud muttered, and glared at his stomach. "I don't have any money on me," he informed it. "So there's no point whinging about it." It was a bad idea to keep gil at school. It was all too likely to get stolen. Brant and his gang weren't the only bullies in Nibelheim. Not by far.

Now he had to find some place to go to kill time until his mother was finished with her 'guest'. He sucked on his throbbing, bleeding knuckle of his index finger while he thought. There was always the top of the water-tower…but that was so lame and lonely and _cold_-

"Cloud! Psst! Cloud! Over here!"

That was definitely _Tifa's_ voice.

Train of thought interrupted, Cloud looked sharply over at the entrance to the alley between his house and the Inn. He couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean anything. It was ripe with shadows fell from the sun low in the western sky; old boxes and bagged refuse hid the rest of the alley from view. He glanced around cautiously. None of the vendors were paying him any mind—too intent on packing up their wares, eager to join their peers in the Inn.

He slipped into the alley and came face to face with the major cause of all his recent grief: Tifa Lockheart. Shoulder-length brown hair, straight, curled a little under her chin; big brown, watery eyes; biggest boobs of all of the girls that went to school; she was the subject of most wank fantasies—especially Johnny's—and the cause of more than one fist-fight; and until recently, she'd been his best friend since they were little.

Now she was just this girl who lived next-door.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," Cloud muttered, crossing his arms.

This of course only attracted Tifa's attention to his still oozing knuckle. "Were you fighting again?"

Cloud adjusted his arms, hiding his injured hand away. "None of your business." He scowled. "What do you want Lockheart? Unless you didn't hear, I can get into a lot of trouble with your dad if he finds me near you."

"I know," Tifa said quietly. Her shoulders drew in on herself. "He's chairing a village-council meeting though so I thought—"

Cloud snorted. "Was that what that was? It looked more like they were getting together to get _drunk_." It was something of a local pastime. Nibelheim raw spirits were often mistaken by outsiders for motor-oil: the same notable substance doctors often mistook for a Nibelheimer liver post-autopsy.

"They'll be going all night," Tifa said, a hint of exasperation in her voice. "I wanted to talk to you…without my dad interfering."

Cloud looked at her, considering; she didn't meet his eyes, preferring to stare at the hem of her tank-top that she was picking at. He glanced back at the mouth of the alley when a shadow flitted by and pursed his lips. "You want to talk, _now?_ After two months of _nothing?_"

"Cloud _please_," Tifa pleaded quietly, "daddy's been watching me like a hawk ever since…ever since…" she trailed off, glancing at his closed expression and winced. "I have to go _straight_ home after school and I'm not to talk to _anyone_, it's not just you. It's _everyone_. He's even got Mrs. Speckler reporting on me. I had to sneak out my bedroom window to get even this far."

"So what?" Cloud said. "If you get caught I'll be the one in trouble. Again."

"Please, Cloud. _Please._" She finally met his eyes and flinched at his glare; she didn't look away though, and for that Cloud gave her some credit. Her eyes battered his resolve.

Cloud made a wordless sound of annoyance, conceding grudgingly. He hopped up and sat on a crate hidden in the shadow of a larger crate so he was mostly hidden from the mouth of the alley, away from any tattling pedestrians. "Fine. So talk."

Tifa scuffed her feet uncomfortably. "Can't we go to your room? It's safer."

"No, we can't," Cloud said shortly, unwilling to admit what his mother was using the house for while he was gone. "Here's just fine."

Tifa wrinkled her nose at the smelly refuse bags behind her, but otherwise said nothing more on the subject. Over the next minute she opened her mouth several times to start talking, and closed it just as many without saying anything at all. She wrung her hands ceaselessly before finally settling on a question.

"How…how's your mom doing?"

"Ask her, not me," Cloud snapped, irritated for a good many reasons. His mother had always treated Tifa like a second daughter. She had some nerve asking after her after what she did. His mother had had it especially rough after her son had been all but ostracized. Whatever affected him affected _her._

"I tried going over today but…there was a man with her…" Tifa bit her lip, clearly uncomfortable with the subject.

"Yeah, well. You know how it is. When her seamstress business falls off, her _other_ business usually picks up." Cloud kicked his feet idly, staring up at the darkening night sky seen through the eaves of the alley. "If I had the gil to buy good bullets I'd go hunting, but I don't, and mom doesn't want me to go up onto the mountain anymore anyway with all those monsters breeding up there nowadays…"

Tifa looked even _more_ awkward and miserable, if that were possible.

"I'm so s-sorry, Cloud," she stuttered.

"Yeah, I'm sorry too." Cloud squinted. The first star was coming out. Odin was bright tonight. Odin was his star. "Doesn't change things though. Sorry is just a word." A word people used selfishly to make _themselves_ feel better. Sorry never changed _nothing_.

"I tried – I tried telling him it was old Ms. Foster that told me that…that s-stupid story that I believed. But he won't listen! He's convinced you're responsible for…for everything!"

Memories of the incident were still fresh in his mind, and so it was easy enough to remember who first accused him of telling Tifa the old stories about the paradise beyond the mountains. "Y'know…that explains a lot," Cloud muttered. Ms. Foster had positively pounced on the very hint that it was him who had planted those stories inside Tifa's mind (it was well known that his mother told such stories often). And of course the Mayor wasn't willing to believe his little girl was anything but perfect, and so they both used Cloud for their own selfish purposes.

_Humans: arrogant and selfish creatures of want want want, need need need-_

That voice again! Cloud slapped his hands over his ears. It didn't help one bit! It was so freaking loud!

"Cloud? What's wrong?" Tifa innocently inquired.

The chorus of voices quieted, just like that, so quickly Cloud convinced himself he was just tired and hungry and imagining things again. He pulled his hands away from his ears cautiously, shaking his head to clear it. There weren't even any trees nearby! He took a shaky breath and shook it off. Maybe Brant's brand of psychotic was catching.

"Nothing. Just…never mind." He refocused his eyes on Tifa, who was practically covered in shadows now. "What were you saying?"

"I asked…I asked if there was anything I could do…" she shifted self-consciously.

That was a rich statement, coming from her. "You could have said something, back then, when your father was yelling at me," Cloud said, bitterly. "You just…looked at me. You didn't say _anything!_ I almost _died_ for you! And you just sat there, looking at me stupidly!" That _hurt._ That _had_ hurt. It still hurt. Friends didn't do that to friends, that much he knew. He'd been sure Tifa was different. But in the end, she was just another Nibelheimer.

Tifa sniffled pitifully. "I know! Gaia, I _know! _I'm sorry. Cloud, I-I am. The doctor said I had a concussion. I didn't know _what_ was happening. There were loud voices, yelling, it hurt my head so much, and everything was spinning and blurry. I don't…I don't really remember anything specific after I fell until I woke up three days later in bed with my head hurting…I just…you saved my life and I woke up and daddy was blaming you for _everything_…and he wouldn't…wouldn't" she had to stop because her voice cracked and her breathing hitched. "…wouldn't even let me see you to say _thank you_. And I couldn't say anything at school because he said these terrible things about what he was going to do if he saw you talking to me, or if I talked to you at school. I just…I don't know what I was supposed to _do_!" She broke down and began sobbing.

"…Oh." Cloud wished he could see her face. She _sounded_ sincere, at least. And if that was true it totally stole the wind out of the sails of his grudgeboat. "Right…um…your head all right now?" he asked, sounding about as awkward as he felt: like a heel on backwards.

He could barely make out her outline as she wiped her eyes and hiccuped. "If I hadn't gone…if I hadn't gone…I'm so stupid! I just didn't know what else I was supposed to do! I wanted her back and I didn't care what you said. I should have _listened._ I'm…so…sorry. I've messed _everything_ up. And your mom must…I'm so _sorry._"

He scratched his neck, not knowing what to say. If she hadn't believed that stupid story in the first place. If her mother hadn't died. If he had never followed her. If her dad wasn't such a pompous, ignorant, overprotective asshole. If people weren't so stupid and selfish and hateful. If. If. If!

Traveling down the 'if' road never really led anywhere productive. His mother was probably right about that. Still…knowing that much didn't really make him feel better about anything. They were still poor. Cloud was still an outcast. And his mom was short on honest work.

Life blew big fat blue loogies.

"Yeah, well…we'll survive. We always have," Cloud eventually settled on, for lack of any other helpful bits of wisdom to share. He crossed his arms and glared at the wood of the box he was sitting on.

Tifa blew her nose into what looked like a hanky. She was so old-fashioned. "I know. You're strong, Cloud. The strongest person I know. I wish…but no…that's stupid."

"…I'm the smallest boy in our class," Cloud couldn't help pointing out, "and I'm the second oldest, only Marlboro's older."

"Yeah…but you're Cloud," Tifa said, as if this self-equating identity just explained everything.

"Uh…right." He was again reminded why he avoided girls. They sometimes reverted to this foreign language called stupid.

Speaking of stupid…

"Tifa…you're friends with Tess, right?"

"Well…sort of," Tifa said hesitantly. "She's a lot younger than I am. But we talk sometimes. Why?"

"Tell her to lay-off on Brant."

"I don't know what good that's going to do, they _hate_ each other."

His foot thudded against the box beneath him. "Brant is _bad_ news, Tifa. He's…" Psychotic? Disturbed? Not-quite-right-in-the-head? "…trouble. Promise you'll tell her to leave off, will you? She's going to get herself hurt." Killed. He couldn't tell Tifa that though, she was already a mess emotionally. Informing her that bunnies should not be used as life preservers could wait for another day. And the talking trees? Those would just stay his own private brand of crazy.

Tifa was silent a moment. He couldn't decipher whether that silence was thoughtful, or merely confused. "I'll talk to her…but I really don't know what to say to her."

"Just tell her the reason why Marlboro still hasn't come back to school is because Brant knocked most of his teeth out after the idiot called him an inbred hick." That might scare her away. Even if it was a lie. Everyone was scared of Marlboro because he was big and he was mean.

"He wouldn't hit a girl," Tifa half-stated, sounding horrified at the very thought. She was such a sheltered little girl. Sure, he wouldn't hit Tifa. But Tess didn't have no mayor as her daddy. She didn't even have a daddy. Not one who would claim her, anyway.

"Somehow," Cloud said, thinking back to the scene he'd witnessed that afternoon, "I don't think being a girl or being nine is going to stop him if he gets it in his mind that she's just another rabbit to play with."

Cloud could feel the confusion rolling off Tifa, but was satisfied when she hesitantly agreed to talk to Tess. "I'll do it, but the only person she really listens to is her mother. You know that."

"That's fine. As long as you try." He hopped off his perch, feeling a bit better now that he'd done something to warn Tess, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "You should get back. Your dad may check on you."

"I will, just…Cloud…we're okay, right?" Tifa asked, painfully hopeful. He could hear her feet scuffing the ground.

"You have to ask?" Cloud muttered. He was intent on walking right by her, when she waylaid him, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face into his shoulder." She was…wet…wet and sobby and _clingy._

And it really _really_ aggravated him that she was a whole two centimetres taller than he was. Even _with _his spiky hair.

"I missed you…_sooo_ much," she breathed into his shirt between silent shaky sobs.

Cloud shifted uncomfortably. Boys were so much easier to get along with. Seriously, what was an argument and a few punches between friends? The whole crying and clinging thing was uncomfortable and silly. Although, Cloud resolved, tears _were_ easier to clean from clothing than blood…so…that was something.

"Seriously, Tifa. Go _home_," Cloud ordered, prying her arms off his neck. If his cheeks were red it was because he was embarrassed _for_ her, not because of her. "I got stuff to do."

He pushed her gently towards the street, but she only took two steps before she stopped and clenched her fists miserably. "I won't…I can't talk to you at school tomorrow," Tifa said miserably. "I'm not supposed to talk to you."

"I'll survive somehow," Cloud said dryly. Johnny talked enough for at least three and a half people anyway.

She ignored his sarcasm, or didn't catch it in her state of emotional upheaval. "It won't be like this forever," Tifa determined, her natural stubborn streak showing itself once more. There was a reason why they had been friends in the first place, after all. Cloud had once _admired_ her. A long…long time ago. Or at least, it felt like a long time ago.

"You're right." Cloud paused, unable to resist one last dig. "I'm sure he'll ease off as soon as you're married." The little bastard that would eventually court Tifa was going to be restrained in a chastity belt inside an hour of the Mayor hearing about it.

Tifa was horrified. "D-don't joke about something like that."

He just waved blithely, moving deeper into the alley. He didn't have the heart to tell her he wasn't joking. Hopefully _that_ brand of crazy wasn't catching.

* * *

Food was on his mind when he approached the back door that led into the kitchen. The door wasn't locked, of course, no one in Nibelheim locked their doors except for the Mayor, and the only thing he locked was his cellar, where all the liquor was stored—and that was more for worry over his daughter's safety than for worry over theft. There hadn't been a crime in Nibelheim since a foreigner stole all the chocobos in the Inn's stables…and that happened when Cloud had been five. He still remembered the commotion it had caused.

Folks remembered the event perhaps more fondly than they had any right to. Although the story had changed to become progressively more absurd as time went on until the most recent version had the mayor and his three closest friends in an epic swordfight that resulted in ten of the would be bandits getting killed, or leaving them with various disfigurements as they ran like yellow cowards, and them (the heroes) at death's door where they each and every one professed true love to their…well…one true love (never mind the mayor had already married and had a five-year old child at the time and hadn't touched a sword in his life).

Visitors to the Inn could always expect to be treated to a shameless rendition of the "epic chocobo heist of '88". It was disturbing to note that the more it got told, the more people seemed to believe it—even the mayor! And he was the only one who had actually been there! Mind you he had only caught a glimpse of the (single) thief before he'd been clubbed (unceremoniously) and woken up (sheepishly) to an empty stable—but folk seemed to have forgotten all the unremarkable heroic details with a startling fervour in favour of the former tale. In fact, the more ridiculous it got, the more folks wanted to hear it.

Cloud coined the behaviour "small-town psychosis" and used it liberally whenever some quirk arose that couldn't be explained away by common sense. His mother, who preferred to think the best of folks no matter how cruel or terrible their actions, disapproved of the term, but notably never argued against it. The heist was a perfect case and point. It even proved the condition was highly infectious.

Talking trees indeed.

He snuck into the recently vacated kitchen after carefully easing the back door open. There were two half-eaten meals on the small kitchen table; a guttered candle had spilled wax all over the wooden holder and onto the polished table beneath. Cloud tip-toed over and hastily extinguished it between his spittle-soaked finger and thumb before it made a bigger mess. The pots and pans were all unwashed, and littered the counter around the stove and sink. A strange pair of work boots crusted with mud sat innocently by the front entrance.

The rest of the house was suspiciously silent, even after cocking his head and straining his ears all he could make out were vague murmurs from somewhere on the second floor.

Satisfied he wasn't about to disturb his mother, Cloud slid into her seat, picked up a fork, and dug into the remains of the lukewarm spaghetti. He avoided the bottle of red wine, even though it tempted him greatly to steal a glass. It was obviously a gift since it didn't smell like vinegar—standard fare for their budget—and he didn't want to assume it was going to be left with them. Nibelheimers were unsurprisingly cheap and possessive when it came to sharing their booze.

A thump on the floor above his head caused Cloud to pause, noodles hanging out of his mouth, and glanced upwards. Strange. He eyed the ceiling above his head and strained his ears.

He resolved a moment later when the sound didn't repeat itself that he had imagined the thump over the kitchen. Mom wouldn't have taken her guest into his room, after all. She would be in the _guest_ room, which lay over the small sitting room.

If the thump had been hard to ignore, the very distinct _creak_ of shifting floorboards overhead and the rising murmur of voices were impossible to ignore. There was most definitely someone or several someones in his room. Cloud's curiosity got the better of him almost immediately; he set the fork down and proceeded to tip-toe up the stairs, avoiding the crooked step halfway-up.

He poked his head over the landing. All three doors to the short hall were open. His mother's was open, the guest bedroom's was open, and so too, at the very end of the hall by the linen closet, was his bedroom door open.

Now that he was up the stairs the voices, which were definitely coming from the depths of _his _room, were more distinct. His mother was arguing with a very familiar voice.

"Put it on," the familiar but as yet unidentified voice urged.

"I can't," his mother said. "It's too small."

"Well…how about this one? Its baggy enough isn't it? Put it on. I'm sure it'll fit."

The distinct sound of fabric rubbing together and shifting traveled down the hall. "It's still tight."

"I should hope so, you've got breasts—he doesn't. But…hmm…something's missing," the voice mused. Footsteps preceded the shadow that stretched out of the doorway. Cloud tensed and ducked his head so he was barely peeking over the topmost stair. A strong hand came into view as it grabbed the blue ballcap from the peg just inside his room. The footsteps retreated again. "Here. Put that on your head."

"Brendan," his mother said, a bit exasperated, "I can't wear that."

_Brendan?_ No wonder the voice had been familiar! Brendan was one of the food vendors who had a semi-permanent stall in the square. Cloud had never interacted with him personally, but that strong carrying bass was easily identifiable; he heard it every day at noon bartering loudly on his way to the schoolhouse.

"Yes, you can," Brendan insisted. "What? What's wrong?"

"That's my son's favourite cap. I got it for him last year on his birthday-"

"-because it matches his eyes," Brendan said impatiently. "I know, I've seen him wearing it most days. It's quite handsome. Put it on already and get on the bed."

His mother had obviously obeyed, because a moment later his bed creaked as it accepted new weight. At this point Cloud's eyes were so wide they had dried; he didn't think he could blink even if he wanted to.

There were more sounds of rummaging.

"What are you doing? That just has dirty clothes in it."

"You think I don't know a laundry hamper when I see one?"

His mother made a strangled noise of distress. "_Brendan! Put those down!_"

A short silence followed. The man sighed. "I thought we had a deal, Signy. What do you think I'm paying double for?"

"_You didn't say anything about—_"

"You knew what I wanted as soon as I asked to do it up here," Brendan insisted. "Now, are we doing this? Or are you about to chicken-out and return my money? It's not like he's ever going to know. Unless you changed your mind about lettin' me—"

"No," his mother said hastily. "No, just—get on with it."

"Then get on your hands and knees and put your head down," Brendan said in a patient, patronizing manner. "It's easier to pretend that way. Oh…and put the hood up."

The bed creaked again as even more weight was added to it.

Cloud was having trouble forming coherent thoughts. So when his legs started moving him down the hall, it never occurred to him that this might be a bad idea. His world degenerated into the sound of meaty thwaps of flesh and wet sucking noises and low, drawn-out moans.

Pressing himself against the wall, Cloud eased his head over until he could see into the room. His breathing hitched once, then stopped completely.

On _his_ bed, dressed in _his_ favourite hoody and wearing _his _favourite ball cap, his mother was being taken roughly by the man Cloud knew only by sight. In the man's hand, as he jerked his hips, was a pair of Cloud's underwear, which he had turned inside out and pressed to his nose. Moaning, and with obvious relish, he inhaled noisily as he did his deed.

"Odin's breath, Cloud, you smell soooo good. And you're sooo tight…"

The room spun. Cloud stumbled back down the hall and down the stairs, nearly tumbling when he missed a step, only to save himself from a broken neck by frantically grabbing onto the banister, hugging for dear life. He froze again, worried they had heard him; but the thumps were steady, the primitive noises constant; he hurried through the kitchen, ignoring his shoes, and straight out the back door. He needed away. He needed to _get_ away.

He made a sharp right, and knocked into a small pile of wooden crates stacked in the alley, twisting him around. He stumbled awkwardly, bare feet slipping on something squishy and fell hard onto a repulsive smelling bag of refuse.

That was the last straw. The spaghetti surged back up his throat.

Cloud vomited.

It was just another fucking day in Nibelheim.

* * *

- **tbc -**


	2. Small Town Psychosis

**- Odin's Legacy-**

**Disclaimer****: **

Final Fantasy VII characters, names, and indicia are copyright Square Enix & co. This is a work of fan fiction, no money is being made from the production or publishing of this work.

**_This story may contain mature content. If you are offended by crude language, violence, heterosexuality, or homosexuality, stop reading now. This story is not for you._**

* * *

**Small Town Psychosis**

Cloud observed his mother's visitor leave sometime just after midnight. By that time, the cold, biting wind atop the water tower had settled under his skin and made his thoughts murky and sluggish.

Down in the square, Brendan's wagon was in good company: the so-called "town-council meeting" had yet to break. A ruckus spilled from the open door of the Inn, mostly slurred lyrics and drunken pipe-flute, and that, along with the cold, continually kept Cloud from sinking into a true restive sleep.

Below, Brendan navigated past several respected but passed-out councilors sprawled on the road, his lecherous grin and his satisfied gait announcing to the town his earlier perverted activities. Bile rose in his throat as Cloud watched him shout something lurid as he sauntered through the doorway of the Inn, rousing cheers and drunken shouts.

He looked away.

From his vantage at the very top of the water tower, Nibelheim splayed out before him. He could see his squat house at the northern end of the square, and the gothic spires of the old haunted mansion still further up the road. Southways he could see the industrial façade of the new schoolhouse, and beside it the newly inaugurated barracks for the small Shinra squad on permanent assignment to Nibelheim. To the east lay the ravine and the stream that curled northwards from Mt. Nibel, the great towering peak that swallowed up most of the skyline during the day and became some dark looming ancient god on the horizon at night. Zangan's dojo was the most eye-catching building to the west; built in the traditional manner of the Wutai Clan, it was one of the biggest lots inside city limits. The mill, the miner's quarters, the twisting road that led south, out of town; sitting where he was, Cloud imagined he was at the very center of it all—the center of Nibelheim.

For whatever that was worth.

Recent events had got him thinking: just what sort of future did he have in Nibelheim? Cloud absently scratched away some mud that had dried onto his calf with his curled big toe. The answer? Not a bright one.

Being the son of two outsiders, he'd never had much of a chance at the few apprenticeships available—carpenter, miller, brewer, cook, potter—they would all go to sons of long-time Nibelheimers: progeny of the town council in other words. Farms outside of town occasionally hired farmhands, but Cloud just didn't have the build to get hired—and those superstitious rural types wouldn't even look him in the eye once they caught sight of his brilliant blond hair, and if they ever _did_ meet his eyes, the word "demon" usually followed.

Children who did well in the Shinra sponsored school had the chance to get a scholarship to study in Midgar at the new university that had just been completed. But book learning had never been his strong suit, and Cloud had never had any designs on attempting the scholarship tests. He hated sitting around on his butt, preferring to be outdoors, stalking through the trees; it was in his blood, his mother had told him, apparently his father had had the same leanings.

So what _was_ he good at?

Well…he was good in a fistfight, for one. Cloud hadn't lost a one-on-one to someone his age _ever_—and he was still the smallest of the bunch. Hirsch, one of the Shinra privates, had shown him some moves a couple months ago, moves which Cloud now practiced religiously. But what did fistfights get him? It didn't give him standing. Who would admit to getting a bloody nose from runty little Cloud? And it certainly didn't earn him any gil.

Since his only real friend in town had been Tifa, Cloud had spent a lot of his younger years wandering the woods, exploring, hunting rabbits and foxes, and setting snares. He'd badgered a hunter coming through town to teach him how to shoot a gun—and even convinced him to take him along a couple of times. Cloud had saved up for _years_ following that lucky break, and had eventually bought himself a second-hand rifle from a passing trader whose caravan had been in town at the time. Sure, it jammed a lot, and it was a battered piece of crap, but it was all his. A couple of months ago he'd even managed to bring in his first bounty, although he'd had to stop his excursions shortly after, having run out of bullets and the gil to purchase more.

And though his first venture into the wilds with his rifle hadn't let him break even, he was certain it was only a matter of time before he could maybe make a living selling pelts and collecting bounties that Shinra paid for killing monsters. The only problem was, the small odd jobs Cloud had used to make the gil he used to buy his rifle and ammunition in the first place had all dried up after the incident with Tifa. And his mother wasn't about to lend him gil—the mountains were too dangerous, she insisted, more dangerous than even the slums in Midgar.

Midgar. Midgar had been on his mind a lot as of late, too—and not just because that was all Mrs. Speckler would talk about in class: Shinra and Midgar, those two giants connected at the hips.

He'd always dreamed of leaving Nibelheim one day—but without funds his options were pretty limited. His best shot was to signup with the Shinra Public Safety Department. It would get him out of Nibelheim for sure, but in exchange he'd be signing away the next ten years of his life to the company. The only problem with that course, aside from essentially entering indentured servitude, was that Shinra didn't accept applicant's into their Public Safety Department unless they met certain physical requirements, one of those being that the applicant be at least of sixteen years of age. He would have to lie about his age if he wanted to enter this year.

It was something to think about, at least, if his situation in Nibelheim didn't improve. If he couldn't get his hunting on track.

_It's not like I've got something better to do with my life,_ Cloud reasoned. _And if mom didn't have me to support…she wouldn't have to rely on her second business so much_. _I could even send a little money to her…to help out._

Cloud sighed and flopped backwards on the water-tower. The stars were so bright tonight. Odin's eye in his constellation shone like a polished diamond, twinkling down at him sagely. Only…it was too bad it had no sagely advice to offer him. Odin only spoke to sages, and there were none left in these times.

It wasn't an unappealing thought, at least, following in his father's footsteps—heading to Midgar to start his own life, fresh, where no-one would bother with the colour of his eyes or his hair. His mother would object, of course, but she couldn't stop him. He would be fourteen in a month. He would be his own man.

Cloud closed his eyes and tried to sleep, ignoring the cold wind, the rank stench of his clothes, and the drunken singing and shrill pipe-flute that determined to keep him awake.

* * *

Dawn cracked the horizon, but Cloud did not stir from his perch until his mother ventured from the house on her daily trip down the lane to the old widow Murrow's house, who kept chickens and sold eggs doubly cheap to other unattached widows. He remained ducked out of sight until Signy passed, knowing she would be searching likely places where he might have stayed the night; he hadn't worked up the nerve to see if he could look her in the face without blowing up.

Cloud kept his thoughts firmly blank as he descended from the tower and entered the house, refusing to look at anything in particular as he padded his way upstairs, shucking his clothing directly into the laundry tub (which was already full of soaking bits) and stepping under the hot water of the showerhead. He scrubbed himself with soap and a thick coarse brush twice before he felt clean, water draining underfoot a sudsy brown. Then he just stood under the hot water and let it play over his sun-browned shoulders while he stared at his wriggling toes.

They hadn't had hot water until Shinra came. Standing under the hot water was one of Cloud's favourite luxuries. Only he couldn't seem to enjoy it now. His mind kept playing short scenes from last night, like a silent picture book without sounds; he couldn't get the image of Brendan hunched over his mother out of his mind.

_I'm going to burn my underwear. And I'm going to burn that hat._

It was his favourite hat. His mother had gotten it for his birthday.

Another dreadful thought occurred to him then:

_If I burn that hat, she'll know I saw her._ Cloud clenched his fists, the scabs on his right knuckles stretched and stung. They had a rule about his mother's _other_ business. It didn't get talked about. Never. They pretended like it didn't exist. _I always knew she did things to earn us a living…but not things like that. Not things like that in my room. Not things like that in my room with a man who…who what? _Cloud had never imagined a _man_ of all people could lust after him. He was small and skinny, generally the runt of his class. As far as he was concerned, there wasn't anything to want, and so it was stupid to even think about it. Brendan was well-built, tall, he had a cart and plenty of money—what could a man like that see in a runt like him?

Was Brendan a pederast? Cloud had read about one in a book once, and that sort of obsession hadn't ended particularly well for anyone involved.

_Must be another episode of Small Town Psychosis, _Cloud decided. He added it to his ever growing list of studious things to avoid trying to understand lest they infect him too.

_I'm still burning my underwear._

He emerged from the bathroom and padded down the hall to his room wrapped in a great big fluffy towel. Back in his room he discovered that his sheets were changed, and his laundry hamper emptied. His eyes took in the newly made bed and his hat, which once again hung from the peg on the wall—innocently, as if it weren't the collaborator in this heinous crime. He swallowed and dressed hurriedly, intent on not thinking about Brendan and his mother and last night and whether or not that goblin in human flesh had gone through any other pieces of his limited wardrobe.

He decided on a pair of black capris his mother had got him a while back but Cloud had declared too girly and the Shinra tee all the students had received from school—only because both items were rooted at the very back of his closet and he was certain they hadn't been touched or played with or _smelled_.

Yuck. Cloud's arms prickled with goosebumps the size of Mt. Nibel.

Thankfully, he could smell breakfast being made downstairs and hear his mother bustling around, so he couldn't brood himself any further into depression. His growly stomach wouldn't hear of it. It wanted food. Now. And Cloud always listened to his stomach.

Cloud hesitated at the top of the staircase. _"We don't talk business in this house,"_ his mother would say if he asked—not that he wanted to ask. His mother wouldn't do something that violated their house rules unless she had had no choice in the matter. _It would be better if she thinks I don't even know._ He gathered his resolve and tromped loudly down the stairs in his usual haphazard morning fashion, stumbled over to the small table in the kitchen and gracelessly slumped into the chair there, a yawn he didn't even have to fake cracking his jaw.

"Mornin'"

Signy glanced over her shoulder to spare a smile as she served the one of the twin omelettes she'd been cooking. "I thought I heard the shower."

"Uh huh."

"Saw you up on the water tower," she said as she served up his plate and a cup of juice and then joined him at the table. "You're going to catch cold."

Cloud handled his fork roughly as he tore into the food. "I fell asleep before you were done."

His mother didn't bother to offer an explanation. She didn't have to. "You left your shoes last night, and the back door was open."

Cloud paused, fork full of cheesy egg wobbling in front of his mouth. He'd forgotten about that. He glanced over at his mother through his shaggy bangs. She looked back calmly with his own blue eyes, long delicate fingers clasped neatly on the table. Belatedly he realized she wasn't staring at him so much as his scabbed knuckles, which were bared around the fork.

_Erk. No use hiding that now._

"I was hungry," Cloud stuffed his mouth and glared back challengingly as he chewed, refusing to hide his knuckles and admit guilt. After all, it wasn't like he was the only one in the room keeping secrets.

"_Obviously_," his mother agreed. "You know the rules—you're not supposed to be in the house when I've got company."

_Company._ Cloud really hated that word. It sounded too polite by half—and there was something offensive about using such a polite nondescript word when describing the things his mother did to keep them fed and sheltered.

"I didn't stay," Cloud said. "And you were already upstairs, so what does it matter? It's not like I interrupted you." _I just walked in on you._ The thought was mirthless.

"And what were you up too that made you late in the first place?"

"Nothing. Just—stuff."

"Uh-huh. _Stuff._" She was staring at his knuckles again, expression humorless.

_This is where Tifa gets her disapproving mothering expression,_ Cloud decided before he averted his eyes from his mother's face. "Boy-stuff," Cloud clarified, turning the tables for once. Usually it was his mother and Tifa sharing a giggle and refusing to tell him what was so funny, claiming he wouldn't understand because it was _"girl-stuff"_.

"And no-one's going to be coming knocking at our door looking to complain about you fighting again, will they?"

"That only happened once!" And Erving wouldn't have said anything. It was his little sister who had tattled and gotten them both in trouble.

Signy sighed and got up to serve her own portion that had finally finished cooking. "We got enough trouble without you making more, Cloud."

_Stupid, dumb Nibelheim. Town of idle gossipers and petty grudges._

Cloud stabbed his eggs moodily. "Why didn't we move back to Midgar when Dad died?"

Signy arrived and set her plate down hard enough to rattle his cup. Orange juice sloshed over the rim and dribbled down the side. "Your father went through a lot of trouble to get us here in the first place before you were born. I thought you liked the forest."

"It's not the forest I don't like," Cloud muttered. "We're _outsiders_ here. At least in a place like Midgar we'd be less noticeable."

"Our people are outsiders everywhere they go," Signy said. "Your father didn't want you growing up in the place Midgar was turning into. He wanted you to grow up like he and I did, away from the pollution and waste of human civilization. He wanted you to have a place where you could explore without us having to worry you'd been kidnapped and sold into slavery. The wilds are in our blood, Cloud. You wouldn't have been happy growing up in a steel jungle. You need the trees and the wind and the sun—space to rove and run and explore. Or don't you remember how you used to roam around with your father for days on end before you'd come home, muddy and happy as a wolfcub?"

"A bit," Cloud admitted grudgingly. His memories of the time with his father were few and fading. He _did_ remember being happy and laughing a lot. "But I'm grown up now, and you won't let me hunt in the forest."

"You know why you can't. It's dangerous with all those monsters. Ever since Shinra came—"

"We've had hot water and free power and a stipend," Cloud said, before his mother could go on another of her anti-Shinra trips. "There are jobs in Midgar at least. Not like here. I'm old enough, now. There's nothing stopping us from going back."

"What sort of jobs, Cloud? With Shinra?"

"Why not? They pay well and there are company dorms." He'd read that in the pamphlet Mrs. Speckler had given out last week. "_Above_ the plate," he stressed. That seemed like the biggest selling point.

Signy let a sad smile grace her lips. "Cloud, as much as you may hate this place, it's still the place where all my happy memories are." Her tone left no doubt that she wanted this conversation ended. She wouldn't leave Nibelheim. It wasn't like they hadn't already discussed moving ad nauseam, but his mother never relented. For all the suffering Nibelheim brought them, she still loved this place—certainly more than it deserved to be loved.

"I'm going to be fourteen soon," Cloud stated. "An adult."

"On paper," Signy agreed. "Old enough to own property. Old enough to get married. Old enough to—"

"Old enough that Shinra will cut the extra stipend off our monthly income," Cloud hurriedly injected. "And what then?"

She looked at him calmly, and Cloud had to shake the sheepish feeling he got for interrupting her. "We'll make do, like we always have," she eventually decided.

Cloud bit his lip to keep an angry, bitter retort from emerging. He picked up his cup of juice and swallowed the sweet liquid, trying to wash the bile back down into his stomach. Cloud knew his skin was flushed—it always got like that when he was angry—as a result it was pointless to try and hide it.

"I'm going to hunt bounties," he said eventually. "Up the mountain. And if I make trips to the mine I can pick up any materia that might have condensed, since no-one else dares go up there anymore." Not since old Havermore didn't ever come back from his prospecting and a search party found bits of him strewn across half a kilometre of mountain trail.

"You think you can make a living off the bounty Shinra pays for hunting monsters?" she said.

_I do._ "It'll be good money."

"For how long?" Signy continued, looking more and more pained. "How long before something goes wrong and your luck runs out, Cloud? Hunting doesn't bring any health benefits with it. If you get hurt..."

"I don't know. I don't _know!_" Cloud finally snapped. "You don't want me working for Shinra, well fine! But if you think there's any other work for me to do in this stinking boring town fully of stupid petty people, you're _wrong!_ There's nothing for me! They hate me. They don't know me, but they all hate me just because of how I _look! _There's barely any work for you! And if you think I'm going to—" _work on my back, you're wrong! _Cloud snapped his jaw shut.

_What am I saying?_

"Going to what, Cloud?" Signy said quietly.

"Nothing. Just—nothing. Forget I said anything," he muttered and pushed himself out of his chair. _I can't believe I almost said that. _Cloud regretted his stupid, babbly mouth.

His mother remained eerily silent as he made to assemble his school things and grab his bookbag from upstairs.

"You don't have class until after lunch," she pointed out when he returned.

"I got stuff to do," Cloud said and shrugged as he strapped on his sandals, the only piece of footwear that didn't look foolish with capris according to Tifa's fashion rules 101.

"I won't give you money," she said from behind him. "Not for that. It's too dangerous."

"I don't want your money," Cloud reaffirmed—especially not money that came from…from a man like _Brendan_. "I'll find some way to scrape enough together to buy some ammunition without you. And in a month, you won't be able to stop me." Cloud turned his head and eyed his mother suspiciously when she remained silent. "You're not going to say something like '_my roof my rules'_ are you?" She always quoted that when he put his back up.

"I won't. Even if I did, what good would it do?" Her eyes sparkled suspiciously. "I think you're too much like your father to let me stop you."

"Well—fine," Cloud said awkwardly.

"Anyone can see that you look like me, Cloud, but you're his son. You're his son," she repeated. Her lips thinned as if she could decide whether to smile or frown and ended up trying both and succeeding at neither. "I won't stop you. But…I won't help you either. I can't." And so resolved she returned to the table to begin clearing dishes. Conversation over.

_Could've gone worse,_ Cloud decided as he finished strapping his sandals. _And it's not like I expected any different. _He stood and shouldered his bag.

"Don't forget your hat, Cloud," she ordered, never one to pass up a mothering opportunity. "The sun is hot out there today, I don't want you to get another sunburn."

Painful itchy peely skin? Or traumatized by hat?

_I choose sunburn.

* * *

_

In a place like Nibelheim where most of the kids came from farms outside town and had a lot of chores to do before the sun was up, it was decided that school would only run in the afternoons so no child would be disadvantaged a proper opportunity to be indoctrinated. Previously, Cloud had used this levy of time to work odd jobs around town, but after the incident with Tifa the jobs had all dried up and he was left with a lot of frustrating free time on his hands.

Sometimes he'd go down to the ravine to think or practice some of the moves Hirsch had showed him in privacy; other times he'd haunt the small Shinra Public Safety barracks, badgering Hirsch to show him more, or convince one of the other privates to spar with him—usually they were bored enough to humour him. There wasn't a lot for Shinra soldiers to do in a place like Nibelheim, save for the few patrols they maintained around the nearby farms, killing off the more dangerous fiends that sometimes ventured down the mountain. But not today. Today the patrol was out and only the portly desk sergeant was present, snoring loudly and drooling over paperwork piled on his desk.

Undaunted, Cloud made his rounds around town, checking the usual suspects for any odd jobs that might've cropped up, eventually agreeing to chop some wood for the ever good-natured Widow Murrow and her darling chickens for a near pittance. Still, money aside, his muscles appreciated the workout and his efforts dispelled the drowsy listless feeling his sleepless night atop the water tower had inspired.

Cloud became so preoccupied by the simple rhythm of the axe and the satisfying burn of his muscles and the crunch of wood that he lost track of time entirely. It wasn't until Widow Murrow came out with the sun bright and hot overhead to chase him off to school that he realized he didn't have time to do more than splash some cold water on his face, wipe himself off with a small ragged towel provided, don his shirt again and run down the lane flushed and bright-eyed and out of breath.

Being late turned out to be not so fortuitous; as he entered the classroom just seconds after Mrs. Speckler had started talking (and gave Cloud fair share of a baleful eyeballing for his efforts) it became obvious that the empty desk at the very back of the row was no longer empty. Marlboro, crooked nose a little crookeder, bruises almost all faded, a bit of a yellow mouse still under his left eye, had returned and was giving Cloud an eyeful burning with resentment as Cloud shuffled to take his seat. To add to his discomfort and make matters worse, Brant, who usually dismissed Cloud, was looking between Marlboro and him with an unnatural sort of interest that Cloud just knew wouldn't end well for anyone.

_I was counting on him not coming to school until his face healed up,_ Cloud thought to himself furiously, _but he's not fooling anyone if he keeps glaring at me like that_, _the idiot._ Marlboro didn't really have anything to be resentful over. The dickwad had been the one who'd attacked him and Johnny in the first place, and the bully had only gotten what he deserved. Then he'd had the guts to send his halfwit brother to jump him yesterday afternoon—that hadn't ended any better for the brothers, as Cloud's scabbed knuckles could attest. Though Cloud had been smart enough to keep his blows above the belt and below the shoulders—easier to hide the bruises that way, but no less painful.

As someone who usually looked forward to the end of lessons, Cloud began to dread the confrontation that was sure to follow. He tried to distract himself by paying an unusual amount of fervent attention to Mrs. Speckler (which weirded her out somewhat and made her pause at odds moments when his piercing blue eyes seemed to derail her thoughts and frazzle her teacherly operations) but the Shinra hay she was shovelling could never hold his attention long. He would glance back then, only to find Marlboro staring at him, then the knot of tension returned.

Cloud noticed that at the front of the class Tifa looked brighter than she had yesterday, content and ignorant of the byplay behind her. Cloud couldn't help feeling the stirring of his old resentment again—not when he had been reminded of all the trouble she'd caused him this morning when he'd been out looking for more odd jobs and getting turned away from folk who once relished his diligent help.

_She apologized, I shouldn't be so bitter._ But nothing had changed except Tifa seemed to feel less guilty about the whole thing. _Well…good for her._ _Fat lot of good that does me_, Cloud thought. If only she'd been born a boy; then he could punch her and felt better too.

"Johnny? Does anyone know where Johnny is? No?" The teacher asked, finally getting around to taking attendance while they waited for the stragglers from the outliers to arrive.

Distracted as he was, Cloud hadn't appreciated the fact that the chair to his right, usually occupied by his fair-weather friend, was neatly tucked under the desk. It wasn't hard to figure out what had happened; Johnny must have come early, seen Marlboro was back, and did what he did best: run the opposite direction as far and as fast as his long chicken legs could carry him.

Propping his head by his arm on his desk, Cloud blew a resigned breath out his nose and returned his attention to the sky and the mountain beyond the windows.

_Really. Some friends I have. Real reliable folk. Couldn't ask for more._

* * *

"Cloud!"

Cloud paused midway out of his seat and winced. _Worst timing, ever, Tess,_ he thought. His plan to make a quick getaway right after dismissal had been ruined when the girl had marched over with a stubborn set to her head, her hands on her hips, and his name on her lips. Somewhere behind him Cloud could feel Marlboro's hostile eyes glued to the back of his head as Cloud retrieved his bag from under his desk and plopped it up on top so he could shovel his various notes and books into its confines.

_Well…there are only so many hiding places in a small town like this anyway,_ Cloud reminded himself. _It's not like I could avoid them for long._ Better to just get it over with.

"Cloud," Tess repeated again, impatiently, every line of her stance screaming she wanted to be anywhere but near him. She stood beside his desk now.

"This isn't a good time, Tess," Cloud muttered. He tossed the last of his belongings into his pack and shouldered it. When he turned around, there Tess stood, right in his face, foot tapping, arms folded, lips pursed. Tess was the most pompous preteen he'd ever met.

"I just want to say I don't know _what_ she sees in you," Tess hissed. "You're small and you've got hay for hair, and eyes of a barbarian—there ain't nothing to like about you, Cloud Strife."

Cloud stared at her. "Uhh…what?"

"There's bad blood in their line, that's what momma says: that your momma was a witch, which makes you _witchspawn_. Everyone knows you don't trust _witchspawn_, 'cause they're bad."

"Uh-huh?" Cloud said, bristling and a bit confused as to why Tess had picked _today_ of all days to verbally bash him out of the blue. It wasn't anything he hadn't heard before, generally speaking; although the witch part was new. "I'm really not in the mood Tess." He tried to move around her but she stepped into his way again, pigtails swaying.

"I think it's disgusting how you follow her around like a dog. If you were _my_ dog, I'd put you down. 'If it looks dumb and stupid, it usually _is'_," Tess quoted in that annoying tone she always used when she was repeating her mother's wisdom. "And you look dumb and stupid."

_Whoever made that stupid rhyme about girls being sugar and spice and everything nice was obviously trying to make a funny._

"Are you trying to pick a fight with me or something?" Cloud wondered. He spotted Tifa on her way out of the room, she sent him a worried glance which he ignored.

"No. I don't even want to be near you. There are some things that just need to be said aloud. _Here_, take it." She shoved a small folded piece of paper into his face. "I only agreed to do this because she looked so sad. _Don't_ think this means I _like_ you or anything. I like _her_, not you. I think you're dorky and disgusting and I'd sooner kiss a _dog_."

Cloud stared cross-eyed at the piece of paper being waved in front of his eyes, then he leaned backwards and snatched it out of her fingers. He unfolded it and read quickly.

_**Meet me in the same place at the same time. **_

_–**T**_

_Huh, _Cloud thought. _I wonder what she wants this time?_

"Well?" Tess huffed. "Thank me."

He crumpled up the note and stuffed it into a pocket of his bag. "I did."

"You didn't."

"I didn't punch you when you started talking shit about me and my mom, did I?" However briefly amusing that might be, the fallout would be murder…or evisceration…or whatever passed for a lynching in Nibelheim. It was all good for men to hit their wives in the privacy of their homes, but public violence against the opposite sex was just not done. Boys beating up each other was almost expected, even encourage by some families—unless your name was Cloud, of course, who was an exception to many of the unwritten rules and never caught any slack.

"It's not an insult if it's _true_, dork."

"…but I might just change my mind if you keep standing here…" Cloud reflectively tapped a finger to his lips, as if thinking hard, staring up at the ceiling.

"You wouldn't, not in front of the teacher," she said.

"Maybe. It's a long walk home, though."

Tess huffed, unimpressed, but stalked off regardless, muttering unpleasant things under her breath.

_That girl definitely has a death wish_, Cloud decided. _No sense of self preservation what-so-ever._ One day she was just going to turn up dead, he figured. She'd say the wrong thing to the wrong person at an inopportune time and this person would actually _do_ something about it—much to Tess' disbelief, Cloud was sure. Tess' mom had done a wonderful job of empowering that mouth of hers—but little to explain the nature of the statement "if you talk the talk, you better walk the walk". Although in Tess' case it should be: "if you talk the talk, carry pepper spray and a taser in your purse and grow eyes in the back of your skull."

_You wouldn't believe that the daughter of a whore would be so spoiled…but there it is._ Maybe it was true what Brant had said the other day on his way home—maybe her mom really _had_n't stopped drinking while she was pregnant.

Cloud shook off the unworthy thought as he made his exit from the schoolhouse. _Mom would wash out the inside of my head with soap if she could read my mind._ She would have some clever aphorism to scold him with…something like: "You can't stop people talking, but you can stop yourself from listening."

Cloud at times wondered if his mother had an aphorism for every argument—it seemed that way sometimes. She read a lot in her spare time. He'd long ago given up trying to catch her out.

Marlboro and Brant were waiting for him outside under the shade of a nearby maple. Cloud did a quick scan of the yard, but Brant's usual trio—Cameron, James, and Stewart—were all missing in action. It was just the two of them—though it _was_ strange seeing the two together. They didn't get along too well, both had alpha-doggy syndromes and superiority complexes that clashed _constantly._ The only difference between them was Marlboro liked to fly solo, while Brant surrounded himself with a flock of like-minded pigeons.

Brant leaned against the tree eyeing him with a curious frown with Marlboro standing a few paces in front; the later having an unpleasant gleam in his proportionally small eyes. They were of a kind, but still quite physically different: where Brant was stocky Marlboro was just pudge. Marlboro also perspired heavily, lending him a greasy sort of look, and smelled like rotting cucumbers; even now his straining white t-shirt was grey with moisture rings around his neck and trailing dips under his arms, victim from his short walk over to the shade through the pounding hot sun.

"So…din't runaway. That's brave. Stupid, but brave," Marlboro sneered and cracked his big sausage knuckles. "I owe you one, so let's settle."

"Not here, idiot," Brant hissed. He had eyes for the school window where Mrs. Speckler could still be seen busy at her desk. She had only to look up and they would be in plain view. "C'mon, I know a place…unless," he glanced at Cloud dubiously, "you gonna run."

Cloud shifted his pack uneasily but stood his ground. The lack of Brant's usual goons made him suspicious. It would be oh so easy for him to lead Cloud to where they were all waiting. Five against one just wasn't fair odds no matter how many moves Hirsch had shown him. "I don't owe you anything," he told Marlboro. "You were the one who jumped us. You got what was coming. You _and_ your brother."

"It'll be different this time," Marlboro insisted, his cheeks, his forehead, even his chin flushing darkly at the reminder of his humiliating defeat at Cloud and Johnny's hands—well…mostly Cloud. Johnny had spent most of the fight writhing around on the ground in pain sounding like a constipated chocobo. "A fair fight: me and you. And then we'll see what's what and who's who."

"Then what's he doing here," Cloud glanced at Brant, who looked entirely bored with their conversation over by his tree.

Marlboro drew himself up. "What's it matter to you?"

"You need his help to fight me?" Cloud wondered.

"I don't need nobody's help to pound your fuckin' girly face chocobo," Marlboro spat and jerked a thumb. "Specially not _his_. I'm jus' showing _him_ what's what and who's who around here—_get it?_"

Yeah. Cloud did. Marlboro was trying to recruit Brant. Wasn't that an oddly funny thought?

"Are we doing this or are you two just going to stand there yappin' all fucking day?" Brant prodded. "I got stuff to do, you know? And if Speckler comes out we're smoked."

That earned him a sour look from Marlboro, but it was just as quickly replaced by a sneer. "Like ass-raping your gay little sausage friends?"

Brant rolled his eyes but dismissed Marlboro after a short glare, one which Marlboro took as submission—even though it wasn't anything close.

"You comin' or not, Cloud?"

"Depends, I guess," Cloud said. He eyed Brant suspiciously. "Where are your friends?"

The stocky boy smiled nastily. "Ain't as dumb as you look. But nah," he shrugged, "they're all over at James's house. We'll go down the ravine, s'all. I know a place," he said airily. "So…you comin' or what?"

They trudged down into the ravine near the bend in the stream; Brant led them, his hands in his pockets, kicking rocks off the path down the loose slope into the trees, Cloud a step behind wondering if he'd made a huge mistake coming with these two, and Marlboro drawing up the rear—glaring one step at Brant, then the next at Cloud—a sullen shade of bitter resentment and hate.

Marlboro embodied every stupid petty bigot trait that Cloud hated in Nibelheimers. He hated anyone who looked different and he held grudges over anything that didn't go his way—even the dust-ups he himself started. And, like most of the boys his age, was nuts over Tifa, and resented Cloud's existence entirely because unlike Cloud, Marlboro couldn't manage a conversation with the girl to save his life. He stared at tits and cracked perverted come-ons like they were clever and then wondered why girls avoided him. He was either ignorant or he was stupid—nothing that spoke well for his breeding or his raising.

Forgetting his personality, his smell didn't help either. Rotten cucumbers were vile…_vile_ things. And girls like Tifa didn't appreciated how many kilos he could press, or the size of his rocks, or how Ifrit damned _manly_ he was—Tifa cared more about personal hygiene and the ability to converse without drooling over tits or making crude come-ons and boasting about how many noses he'd squashed.

In fact, Cloud was sure the only way Tifa was ever going to be happy was dating a girl with a dick…but that was a thought he wasn't ever going to share with nobody. Mostly because he was in a position to suffer fallout from such a comment—or _had been_, he should say. They hadn't talked to each other in public for a long stretch and as a result the ire he usually faced in other boys had dropped off significantly. All of them minus Marlboro, whose grudge-boat was still sailing under full canvas.

"Here. We'll do it here," Brant informed the two boys who trailed him, planting himself in the middle of the small clearing on the bank of the stream.

The long trampled grass bred familiarity. It was the same clearing Brant and his pigeons had been nesting yesterday. He could even spot the tree he'd used yesterday to mark the small grave he'd dug for their victim.

"Lookin' to run?" Marlboro taunted.

Cloud refocused on the boy across from him. Sweaty, breathing heavily, flushed with hatred, Marlboro just rubbed Cloud all wrong. He wondered what Brant saw when he looked at Marlboro…there was something in that cool gaze that Cloud couldn't quite identify. It wasn't admiration, whatever it was.

"What's your problem, Marl?"

"Little faggot blonde's my problem," Marlboro said. "You fucking strut around with that bitch like you own her, when you're nothing but the son of a whore and a bastard on top of it. I heard you almost got her fucking killed and yet here you are, lookin' like nothing to do with it."

"I'm not her fucking keeper," Cloud snapped. He was sick and tired of hearing people tell him it was his fault Tifa had gotten hurt. Sick and tired of hearing jabs at his family. "You make your choices, I make mine, _Tifa makes hers_."

"If it was me…" Marlboro began, but Cloud cut him off.

"Then why wasn't it? Why weren't you there?" Cloud demanded. "That's right. You weren't there because Tifa thinks you're a fucking dumbass gorilla with nothing better to do than drool over breasts and scratch his pubes when he thinks nobody's looking."

Cloud started when Brant laughed, a sound that only infuriated Marlboro all the more. His hands were twitching along with the throbbing muscle of his jaw apparently too angry to speak.

"Look," Cloud said after a moment of silence where the tension just kept ratcheting higher and higher, "I don't _like_ Tifa like that, get it? We barely talk to each other anymore. There's no use getting angry at _me._"

"Don't fucking tell me who I should be angry at. I _owe_ you _Strife_," he took a threatening step forward. "For a whole pile of shit."

"Like what?"

"For fucking jumping my brother with your faggot skinny-ass friend!" Marlboro spat.

"Your bro—hang on. I didn't jump your brother, he jumped me. And Johnny wasn't anywhere around."

"That's not how he told it," Marlboro spat. "He may be a fucking idiot. But he'd my brother. You mess with him, you mess with _me._ Without your little friend you're _nothing_."

Cloud opened his mouth, closed it, then scowled. _Why am I even bothering to argue with this tool._ Marlboro was the epitome of small town psychosis. There was no reason or rational behind his conjectures, he saw the world in ways that were convenient to him. Instead of bothering to argue further, Cloud shucked his bag aside, tossing his shirt after it a moment later.

_No point in ruining a perfectly good shirt,_ Cloud reasoned. Made him hard to hold on to, too. And Marlboro was one of those guys who liked to grab and tackle and smother.

"Hah, now you're talking Strifey," Brant crowed from the sidelines. "Kick his slug ass."

"Shut the fuck up Brant," Marlboro snarled, spearing a threatening sausage finger his direction. "When I'm finished with the little faggot you're next. Without your little gang of buttlickers you ain't nothing special."

Brant crossed his arms, good mood apparently unaffected by threats of physical violence. "We'll see, won't we?"

Marlboro cursed him thoroughly.

Cloud used their interaction to sweep the ground with his eyes. The grass was long, but mostly trampled flat and browning. There were no rocks or anything to trip over, but the grass was dangerous enough by itself—especially when tripping would mean a practical victory for Marlboro. The grass was also slick in parts where the dew hadn't all evaporated with the mottled sunlight coming through the trees.

Cloud took a step forward and set himself, catching Marlboro's attention. Cloud was glad he had worn his capris; they may look girly, but they were easy to move in and clung tight to his legs, making them hard to grab onto.

While Marlboro was angry, he wasn't stupid when it came to fights. He didn't rush in like the last time, he waded cautiously. He'd already got his face pounded once for being a bit too overconfident in Cloud's fighting ability—even if Johnny _had_ distracted him a moment in their fight giving Cloud a free shot that had dropped him—and this time he knew to be wary of Cloud fists, which were fast and accurate and small enough to slip sloppy blocks and just snappy enough to bruise mightily. Marlboro was big enough to take a few punches, sure, but _nobody_ could take a punch to the jaw or the temple or the junk and just shrug it off, not even big bulky Marlboro: or so Hirsch had taught him.

Cloud focused, mentally turning his focus to its highest level. The world turned into a list of priorities:

_Fists tight, elbows in, sharp—don't overreach—wait for him to move first. If it's low, use a knee, if he comes punching, look for a quick counter and keep distance,_ Cloud mentally recited the strategy he had decided upon on the way down. The knuckles on his right hand ached as the abraded flesh pulled taught. _His punches don't have snap, but if one hits it may push me off balance._ _If I can get around him I can kick out a knee, but all the grappling locks are probably out…_Cloud could admit he didn't have confidence enough in his own skills or his own brute strength to risk getting that close to Marlboro. That wasn't _all_ fat under that loose skin.

Cloud slid around Marlboro's approach easily enough, putting the big slug between him and Brant, testing his footing. _Like I trust Brant at my back after yesterday,_ Cloud scoffed. Footing _was_ a bit dodgy, one of his sandals almost lost traction in the shade and Cloud was quick to move back into the sun. He would have to make do with a shortened run of available terrain. _Wet grass, low friction._

"Come here bitch, I got something for _ya!_" Marlboro yelled as he stepped in and flung a clumsy right hook at Cloud's head. Cloud jumped in under it, driving his fist deep into Marlboro's gut, angling off before Marlboro had even registered the blow. _Not deep enough._ It was like punching a bean bag.

By the time Marlboro grunted and turned Cloud was already driving a kick at the back of his exposed knee but he mistimed it and his foot smacked into the meat of the boy's calf instead. He aborted his next move to avoid another swipe and slid back again.

"Fucking, _bitch_," Marlboro snarled. He didn't advance—a minor victory—and watched Cloud a _lot_ more warily as he dropped an arm to cover the spot on his gut Cloud had driven a fist into.

Cloud's sharp eyes didn't miss how Marlboro's calf was flexing unnaturally—it was cramping from the blow—but his apparent advantage at the moment was a bit deceptive. For Cloud to take advantage of this immobility he would either have to step into the shade (and more treacherous ground) or put his back to Brant, who was hurling words and phrases his ears were blocking out.

"_I used to box," _Hirsch had once told him. "_And there are always times in the fight you land a blow that sends your opponent reeling…and you get this urgent adrenaline rush to just jump in and finish it. But that's the one move your opponent can predict no matter how injured he is. The boxers who last the longest aren't the lucky ones who jump in and hope for a lucky punch, they're the methodical ones. One blow at a time, Cloud. Take every fight one blow at a time."_

Mindful of this advice, Cloud darted in a step, throwing a quick fake jab meant to startle, then ducked left again when Marlboro lunged forward, trying to grab his shoulders. Cloud knocked the hand away with his elbow and landed a satisfying left hook into Marlboro's side in the same motion, just below his ribs. As soon as the blow landed, even before the impact sent ripples of fat wobbling, Cloud knew he had connected properly. Marlboro's face drained of blood, his grab neglected in favour of protecting himself. Cloud hopped back as Marlboro swung around, yowling like a wounded beast.

_There! He dropped his hands!_ Shifting his weight, Cloud chambered a kick, and then with the flexibility Hirsh's stretches had developed, planted his sandal straight into Marlboro's unprotected cheek with a satisfying _crunch._

The pudge dropped like a sack of wet potatoes.

Cloud only took a moment to make sure Brant hadn't moved during the exchange before he warily walked the long way around Marlboro, who was blinking quickly up into the sun, his mouth opening and closing with short gasping sobs, tears dribbling from the corner of his eyes, pooling, dripping off his temples, and went to collect his bag again, which was damp from the grass. He hurriedly slipped into his t-shirt and slung his bag across his shoulders, keeping the other psychotic in view when he could. But Brant didn't budge. He stood opposite Cloud just looking with an unreadable expression, arms still crossed, taunting jibes forgotten. Cloud walked across the clearing, expecting Brant to say _something_, at the very least, but the stocky boy just eyed him as he passed, making no move and offering no words. He just watched.

_Creepy, _Cloud noted. He got chills just meeting those cold dark eyes. _I should say something,_ Cloud thought. But words wouldn't come.

Then Cloud was past, his feet found the trail again and he started the climb back up the ravine, the clearing and the stream once again lost amongst the trees.

* * *

Cloud lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He'd counted nine thousand three hundred and sixty-two spots before he began debating whether he'd accidentally counted the big blob that looked like Marlboro's pasted face twice when there came a soft tap at his door.

"Cloud?" his mother called through the door.

"It's open."

Signy poked her head in and made a show of checking the door knob. "I was just being polite. You don't even have a lock."

"I didn't say anything about it being unlocked," Cloud muttered.

"Then shouldn't you have said 'it's closed'?"

Cloud glared at his mother for a moment. "It's closed. But thank you for knocking and reinforcing the illusion of privacy. I'm not terribly busy. Please. Come in."

"That's a bit of a mouthful isn't it?" Signy said.

Cloud rolled over onto his stomach and huffed into his pillow. The floor creaked and then the bed shifted a moment later as it absorbed Signy's weight. A hand rubbed his lower back fondly.

"Widow Murrow came by with a half-dozen eggs. She felt guilty about making you do all that work for so little pay. Said that you chop double what anyone else chops for the same amount of money."

"Can't make a living chopping wood," Cloud said into his pillow. "No matter how good I am." Can't make a living kicking stupid people in the face either…but there you go.

He could hear the kind, soft, understanding smile in his mother's voice. "Maybe not, but effort is a mark of good character."

Effort was anathema in a small town that survived on a stipend from big brother Shinra. "She watches me like a hawk from the kitchen window like I'm going to make off with her axe, or something." He turned his head so he could peer up at her face. "And _sometimes_ she gives me this _look_ and asks me the _strangest_ questions. Like today she asked me how I thought the wheat crops would turn out. Do I look like a wheat sage? What do I know about farming?"

Signy laughed lightly and patted his back. "When you get to be her age, I'm sure you'll have your quirks other kids will complain about to _their _mothers."

This was exactly why he never complained to his mother much anymore. She always had answers. But that wasn't the point of complaining was it? Complaining demanded sympathy. Signy only had answers as best she knew. It was…annoying sometimes.

"Are you comforting me or scolding me?" Cloud wondered.

"I'm mothering you while you'll still let me."

"Huh." He'd never heard his mother sound quite so wistful.

"What's wrong Cloud? It's not like you to stay inside and mope."

Wasn't that the million gil question. _What is wrong with me?_

Well…she did ask: "School's boring. I can't find work. Tifa's annoying. Tess is even more annoying…did you know her mom thinks you're a _witch_?" Cloud said, scowling into his pillow. "'parently that makes me _witchspawn_. When do I get my pointy hat?"

"After I clean out the old cauldron in the basement on your sixteenth for the human sacrifice ritual."

"'kay. Can we use Tess?"

"Too bony."

"Too bad." Cloud sighed.

"Now what's _really _bothering you?" Signy pressed.

"I told you."

"Cloud, you're my son. I _taught_ you how to dissemble under a smokescreen. You've never cared about school. Work will come in time. You've had months to make up with Tifa and it hasn't bothered you yet. And if you think I'm about to believe that a silly little girl like Tess can rattle you, you're lying to yourself."

"But that's just it. I can deal with a mosquito bite, sure. But what about ten? Thirty? How about a hundred? It's not just one thing that's bothering me, it's a whole bunch of things." It's _Nibelheim_. Period.

"You think leaving is going to solve your problems?"

"A few of them, yeah," Cloud said. "Like money. A job. And I won't have to see Marlboro or Brant or Tess or Tifa—"

"And wherever you end up there will be another Marlboro, and another Brant, and another Tess. Life isn't so simple that you can just…run away from your problems and think that's how to solve them."

"Midgar would be different. It's a _city_."

"You make it sound romantic. A _city!_" Signy said patronizingly. "So there will be a hundred Marlboro's and a hundred Tess' instead of just one. Nothing changes."

"I'd have a job, at least," Cloud said stubbornly.

"History books will one day call it: indentured servitude."

"Argh!" Cloud yelled, picking up his pillow and chucking it across the room. "Why are you so set on not letting me do _anything!_" The pillow hit the wall and plopped onto the ground. Cloud felt a lot like that pillow.

Signy remained resolute in the face of his anguish. "Throwing away your life for the sake of _doing something_ is exactly what mothers are supposed to prevent their sons from doing!"

"Well I never got that memo!"

"You didn't get the secret decoder ring either; comes with children."

"And cereal boxes." Cloud shook his head. "I don't hear you offering me any neat alternatives."

"You could get married. Then you'd be eligible for your own stipend from Shinra."

"_Married? To who?_"

Signy quirked her lips. "Friendship," she said, "is the strongest foundation of any successful marriage."

_Tifa?_ "Oh no—are you nuts?" Cloud said. "Even if I _did_ want to marry her—_which I don't_—there's no _way_ her dad would ever approve of it." Dealing with Tifa for small periods of time was fine…Cloud could manage. But having to deal with her twenty-four hours seven days a week? That was a whole 'nother can of expired spam.

"If you really wanted it we'd find a way."

"I _don't_." He supposed that came out a whole lot harsher than he meant it to; filled with months of repressed bitter feelings. "I feel like if I stay in Nibelheim any longer than I have to my brain is going to _rot_. One day I'm going to wake up and realize that I'm just another no-good lazy nibelheimer who's just as petty and stupid as every body else. I want to do something that _means_ something."

"Is that why you're so determined to hunt in the wilds?"

"Partly," Cloud admitted. "Partly because I think I can make gil doing it; partly because it gets me out of Nibelheim for a stretch; partly because I'm _good_ at it—or I think I can be good at it."

"And Shinra?"

"I don't know," Cloud said. "I think mako has made our lives better in some ways. I don't think what they're doing is _wrong_. But I do feel that if I got a job with Shinra at least I'd be doing _something_ worthwhile. More than sitting around on my butt here in Nibelheim enjoying gil I didn't do anything to earn."

"If you tried harder at school I'm sure you could attend the new University," Signy said. "At least then you wouldn't have to fight. You could be an engineer or an accountant or a—"

"But that's not what I'm good at," Cloud protested. "I'm good at hunting. I'm good at fighting. I'm good at shooting. And I _hate_ sitting around on my butt doing nothing. I get that it's dangerous mom. But where else can I get the training I need that pays me instead of the other way around?"

Signy squeezed her eyes shut, as if she were in pain. "Fourteen…Cloud fourteen is too young to be a soldier."

Cloud didn't say anything to that. _He_ didn't feel too young, and _Hirsch_ didn't think he was too young.

"I can't stop you from hunting, I said that—I'll keep my word. But I want you to compromise with me."

Cloud became wary. "What do you mean?"

"You won't run off to Midgar before you turn sixteen."

"What? Sixteen! But—"

"In exchange," Signy overrode him. "In exchange, I'll pay for lessons with Master Zangan. Two years. You go learn how to defend yourself for two years, and you can hunt when you have time. But in exchange, you wait until you're sixteen. You do your level best with Zangan for _two years_. Fourteen is too young. _Sixteen _is too young! But sixteen is better than fourteen."

His thoughts waffled. He had _always_ wanted lessons from master Zangan. Only the richer kids in Nibelheim could afford them, though. He usually didn't accept anyone under the age of fourteen, and for good reason. Apparently his training methods were just this side of brutal.

"Please Cloud. I won't ask anything more. Just this."

Cloud swallowed at the desperate, vulnerable look his mother wore. He muttered: "We can't afford that." Zangan charged for his lessons, and they weren't exactly cheap.

"We can. We _will_," she affirmed. "I have enough put aside, Cloud. You let _me_ worry about the money."

_Money from men like Brendan,_ his traitorous little inner self reminded him.

"And you won't say anything about me hunting?" Cloud asked. No matter what he resolved to do, Signy's outright disapproval was a heavy burden. If he could hunt he could help with expenses.

"So long as you're careful and it doesn't interfere," she said, choosing her words carefully.

Cloud eyed her for a moment before his gaze dropped to his lap. "I guess I could manage another two years…" He sighed and reluctantly tolerated a slightly wet kiss on his cheek he itched to scrub off. The watery, thankful smile that followed it made his stomach clench. He had never seen his mother so affected. He looked away out the window to the old God that loomed on the pastel horizon.

Two years. Cloud wondered what he'd be like in two years.

_Probably talking with trees,_ he thought ruefully. _And selling my used underwear to perverts._ Like a good little psychotic Nibelheimer.

—**tbc—**


End file.
